


The Krieg Journals

by Warhunterkiller



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warhunterkiller/pseuds/Warhunterkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of journal entries from the fanatical Death Korps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Krieg Journals

The journal of Private Joachim Haltz, serial number 68364829, of the 57th Krieg Shock Regiment, of the 67th Krieg Expedition.

Serendipitous moments are one of those things you wish didn't happen in moments where your personal life can mean death, or the occasional humor onslaught. However, rarely do they do more than just embarrass or maim our egos, they can save oneself. I stood tall and proud in the bay of the Gorgon assault transport, I stood with thirty of my brothers. We were ready to crush the enemy with boot and fist, if need be. A dim lumin-globe radiated some precious light in the normally void engulfed bay. The occasional ping of ricocheting bullets and the thunderous clap of explosives vibrated throughout the vehicle. Soon, I thought. The sight and sound was insatiable.   
The feeling of taking a life that did not deserve to be lived was a blessing and an honor. I imagined the faces of our corrupt enemy; seeing their nightmare come forth with hate and righteous fury blazing through our weapons and fists as The Black Death swarmed their worthless positions and strangle their souls from their pathetic corpses was, I admit, smile provoking. The Black Death, a highly respectable recognition given to those who performed valiantly against odds not in our favor. It was a privilege to wear the black uniform with the skull and bones burning white on our chests. The emblem forged onto our helms with the reddening of our goggles made us look like death.   
This day, the sky was blanketed in a thick layer of storm cloud, thunder roared through the night, as rain pelted the field. Mud, a double-edge sword it was, slowly the enemy down and us, but we were professionals in the face of unforgiving nature. I heard the engine roar in anger as it put its full power to tread the sea of mud and corpse. Then, like on cue the stubbers rang out, it sounded like a chainsaw. Then the thump of mortars followed. Soon, we enter hell. The vehicle jerked as it came to be an abrupt halt. Captain Greeigs blew the whistle and the ramp began to descend. The hiss of hydraulics mixed in with the ping of ricocheting bullets and the ionizing crack of las-bolts. It was music to my ears. The heavy metal ramp fell with a splash in the mud.  
Globules of muck rained down upon the metal ramp. The captain was the first to step off the ramp, geysers of misplaced death exploded around him. His black trench coat billowed behind him, the skull and bones visage blazed a burning white. He appeared to be an angel of death. His arm raised and his voice booming, telling us to move forward. My heart swelled with pride and joy. My lasgun was primed and ready, my blade sharp and deadly. I was ready to kill or be killed. Like a black surge, we smashed against their defenses. My boots clanking against the metal plating beneath me, so close I was to the ramp. My right foot crashed down upon it and I slipped. My weight came crashing down into the crimson sludge. Has anyone ever told you that time don't slow when a disaster strikes? Well, it does. I raised my head, and I saw above me an autocannon shell twirling through the rain. And then there was a burst of meat and bone. The man behind me was struck head on. His mutilated corpse fell next me, his black uniform was tarnished. I felt something tugging on me. I was in a daze, I admit. I fell on my face in the middle of a warzone and escaped death by my clumsiness. I turned my head to see an angry skull mask steering into my soul. A sash rife with medals and honors crossed his plated shoulders.   
'Do I have to shoot you, or are you going to die like a soldier?' the voice said. It was cold and bereft of sympathy. His bolt pistol pointed at my worthless skull. A black glove came down and tightly gripped my collar. With his strength he lifted me up. 'Forward, coward!'

 

The journal of Private Johann Freins, serial number 27935729 of the 35th Shock Troop, of the 67th Krieg Expedition.

I held the stave close to my body. The hobnails digging themselves into my skin, pain, the only thing real in a universe full of unreality. The air was cold, with the brightness of the moon giving any light on this Emperor forsaken world. We moved silently towards the enemy trenches, it was difficult, pools of water mixed with blood and entrails marked the no-mans-land. The smell was just awful, rotting meat mixed with the burning flesh of the burial pyres. I was the first to enter the trench; the warped wooded boards creaked as my full weight pushed them down. My stave was raised, the hobnails gleaming in the bright moon light. The objective running through my mind: capture the front commander, at all costs, he must be taken. Quite an objective when the man – creature—is guarded with, I bet, highly specialized troops. However, we, the Black Death, do take the most dangerous missions because we will get it done.

The trench system was rudimentary, simple fields of fire that would do absolutely nothing to stop a full on ground offensive. But of course, we were fighting an enemy that shunned the Emperor, so, I guess their stupidity comes with dealing with the foul beasts that plague the warp. Laughter and ramblings of the insane wafted through the air; just mere meters away, the enemy fraternized with each other. Idiots. Lho-stick, the minute flare gave away the poor bastards position. Facing Imperial lines, with not a single care in the world, he was sitting on a crate with a defaced Aquila, beside him was a stubber, the barrel rusted and mud caked magazines. At the time, I wondered how they have managed to resist so long. I crept low and unfolded a garrote, the stave would've been too much for a simple target, and the garrote was perfect for killing an inept idiot. I lassoed the traitor, and tightened the wire around his neck. He struggled; I pulled tighter until the wire dug deep into his worthless neck. Blood gushed out as his head became dislodged from his neck. His body fell with a thud on the wooden panels. 

Sergeant Wilhem, and the rest of our raiding party arrived at my position, his black attire became part of the darkness that consumed us, only the whites of his skull etched gas mask broke the transformation. There were ten of us, carrying an assortment of weapons, staves, pickaxe handles, hatchets, and knives. The Black Death was on the silent hunt, we need not weapons that would forfeit our silence. There was a ruckus to our right, heavy marching of boots on wood pooled in mud. 'Sink into the shadows,' Wilhem ordered, his form dissipating in the now moonless alcove. Laughter and the scent of foul smoke wafted past us as a four man line patrol walked on by. The world turned green as I activated my NVG's, the form of the foul traitors stood clearer. Like the one I dispatched, they were maimed and warped crazed. My comm-bead came to life with a brush of static and the rough voice of Wilhem. 'Johann, take the rear man. Karl and Wesma, take the two in the center. I'll take the leader.' In unison we acknowledged. The green world showed the Sergeant and the other two men move into position. 

The trench system was wide as it was deep, I really didn't know why. Wilhem had a trench knife, while the other two had hatchets. We waited until they trailed off, easy picking and a higher chance our cover doesn't get blown. My target never knew what hit him. My stave struck the bastards neck, the hobnails digging deep into its wretched neck. I pulled away; skin and blood dripped and flopped off of the nails. I struck again, the beasts head exploded in bursts of red. Blood began to pool around my boots. I looked for the others and I saw, what as humanities finest does best, kill the traitor, the alien, and the mutant with extreme prejudice. Karl was first of the others to bring down their designated targets. A swift and decisive blow in the spine, then another, and another until blood painted the blackness of his uniform. He was panting. Wesma, mere feet away from Karl swung with all of his might, until the hatchet dug itself deep into the neck of the other sentry. Spurts of blood came forth as the blade was torn away from the broken flesh. He swung again and again until the head rolled off into the darkness. Or assassinations almost came to an abrupt end when the leader turned and saw that his crew was gone, but before he could radio in help, sergeant Wilhem slid the trench blade into the nape of the leaders' neck. His body convulsed and suddenly seized and fell.

 

The journal of Sergeant Heinrich Stoltz, serial number 89462864 of the 33rd Shock Troop, of the 67th Krieg Expedition.

The mustard-yellow gas rolled and eddied around the boots of the Undying Horde of Hyri'yh. They tried fleeing but the gas was too potent: some fell and convulsed as their skin peeled and blistered, lungs blistered and blood oozed out of their screaming mouths, eyes swelled and ruptured in crimson explosions. The Emperor's justice was swift and just, the wrath of He stood passive and ready as the order to attack rang out. Out the mustard-yellow gas filled haze, we came, the Black Death. Our skull adorned gas masks peered through the effluvium engulfed area; those who survived the initial attack looked on. Praying to their vile gods for salvation, but none came. Our bayonets were at en guarde, our lasgun at full charge, we were ready to strike the devastating blow upon the enemy. 'Spread out,' I shouted, the deep raspy reply carrying over the agonizing screams of the fallen. The crackling of gunshots, lasguns, no98 Lucius Pattern Lasgun to be exact, it was the sweet sound of vengeance. I came upon a man, his skin was blister ridden, sores that were bright red with pus oozing out periodically. His face had stubble on it, strange, I never seen the Arch-Enemy with facial hair. He raised a hand, battered and fractured, problem from falling in the fervor to run and hide – coward. 'Don't worry, your suffering will end.'  
He growled, blood trickled out, and piece of lung. I stabbed him in his heart, the schlick of the blade tearing through the soften flesh was soothing, and rewarding. Knowing tainted enemies, we were ordered to shoot the head, just to make sure they stayed down. I fired a single shot from laspistol, the new leather holster crudely painted with brain matter and already congealing blood. On to the next one, I thought. He was the only one I came across that still lived; the others were already dead, their corpses in frozen in catatonic poses. Their last moments forever frozen in a state of pain, how ironic, an enemy that only brought pain and suffering died in the ways they unleashed.


End file.
